night guitar

these old strings ring
a touch a rust
but true n'tuned

chords beat big
the usual heavy
hammers n'pulls

songs soaring out
deep into the night

fall morning

cold floors
seeping drafts
darkness

summer robe
all too thin
this morning

first coffee brewing
as the furnace clicks on
basement deep

a burst of heat
up through the vents
a monk smiles

song of glory

the guitar top
chipped worn
cracked

pick mark laced
rusting strings
nagging fret buzz

the tired monk
adds a few more nicks
working on the song of glory

a monk's perception

i)

he talks
           proud

- the end of graffiti,
and broken glass

he smiles
            proud
                    so proud


ii)

but

the tired monk knows

bits of painted hate cling
untouched
missed in sandblast haste

iii)

the tired monk pauses
brushes tiny shiny
glass shards
from worn sandal soles

the timeworn monk

graying temple tonsure
clicking knees
sun faded robes
ragged hem dragging
on well raked paths

the Tired Monk

beer prayers

the lawn chair
leans
crooked
under the hemlock

old monk
stretches out
birkenstock feet

takes a cold pull
of frothy lager
prays